


A Reckoning of the Soul

by twilightarc-gm (darklilcorner)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Blood and Gore, Castiel/Dean Winchester One Shot, Dark Past, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, M/M, Meet-Cute, Nightmares, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Savior Castiel (Supernatural), Torturer Dean Winchester, it's not THAT dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29760462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darklilcorner/pseuds/twilightarc-gm
Summary: Well into the era of the New Republic, aided by the New Jedi Order, more planets and people are being brought into the alliance of systems that spans further spaces than ever has been known before. Castiel, Jedi Master and teacher to Padawan-learner Sam Winchester, meets his student's brother for the first time to work together on a mission. Dean Winchester evokes in Castiel a need that tests his mastery as a Jedi and as a Seraph, but in the end he finds that Dean would need him just as much.[Graphic depictions of gore are mentions in a nightmare.]
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	A Reckoning of the Soul

It was the sixth time that Dean listened to the holo-cast message from the palm communicator he had downloaded it to. Sam informed him that he had been accepted by a Jedi Master as a padawan. Their first mission was into restricted territory, kept isolated by a government that controlled four habitable planets in the system. Dean honestly had to look up the name because he had never heard of it, and it had been harder to identify because there was no way he could pronounce the native name of the scaled, quadrupedal race that populated it.

The best part of the exuberant message from his little brother was that he had convinced his teacher that Dean could smuggle them in. Instead of waiting for Endor Day to finally see Sam, there was only a week to go when Dean docked in Coruscant. And not only was the mission sort of legal, but he was going to be paid for it. Dean counted this is a giant win all around.

[“I really like Castiel as a teacher. The Council warned me that we might have communication issues, but it hasn’t been a problem. He’s just… very literal. I can’t wait to show you the saber I made. Thank you... for letting me use Mom’s amulet, I know how much it meant to you, but I got something that you might like to hold on to in its place?”] The holo of his brother’s youthful face was silent for a few seconds as the next words were considered and weighed. [“I miss you, Dean. I love you.”]

Dean had to exhale the breath he had been holding at the end of the message. Sammy always did that to him. The kid knew he hated sentimentality and sappy emotional expression, and that’s why the pause before that last omission. Dean smiled anyway, because heck, he was alone at the bridge control of his modified Corellian corvette and it didn’t hurt to smile because he loved his little Jedi brother.

A beep from behind him and the swoosh of the automatic blaster doors heralded the entry of his relief. Dean turned to see Ellen walk in with a cannister of flavored stimulant and the most characteristic grimace she could manage.

“Mornin’, starshine!”

Ellen only grunted and took a swig of her poison before she waved him out the pilot seat.

Dean obliged, but not before he could get away from the woman’s smack to his shoulder. Leaving the bridge with the best saunter he could manage, Dean went in search for the rest of his crew.

* * *

Jo and Bobby, the senior ranked members of Dean's crew along with Jo's mom Ellen, were down in the mess with a steadily growing accompaniment of the rest of the Hunters. They took on odd jobs from smuggling to bounty hunting, and even legit side business when the illegal stuff was scarce or not paying well.

The Wayward Sun was home to a crew of ten, mostly human, but all of them outcasts and misfits. Benny was a paradoxically social Anzat and an ex-assassin that only fed on targets he considered immoral. Ruby was a Zeltron with a bit more sense and a lot more agenda than her species was typically known for.

Dean sat next to Madison, the only person on the crew that was taller than Dean, though she was only average by Codru-Ji standards. She used her lower left off-hand to pour Dean some supplement-filled water as the only acknowledgement of his presence.

The mess was big enough for a hundred people, but they all sat at the two tables closest to the serving counter, where Benny was throwing together rations and canned dietary necessities together into something edible enough. They had been out of fresh food for weeks now and everyone was not only looking forward to getting Sam back for a bit, but also loading up the cargo holds with new eats and refreshing the hydroponics bay with seedlings.

When Charlie and Ash wandered in thirty minutes late after serving, the only crew member not in attendance for breakfast was Frank, who didn’t need to eat as a droid.

Of course, once those two were seated, the entertainment started and everyone began to wake up for real.

Ash waved around his cybernetic arm, wires exposed where the lame-brain had not reattached the plates that should have covered them. “No, I’m serious. We should install a holo-room. Imagine the women! Our own little slice of paradise in the emptiness of space!”

Bobby used his fork to emphasize just how ridiculous the idea was. “We ain’t got the credits to install pleasure rooms you lot are just going to fight over.”

Charlie bounced in her seat, talking to her food as much as the rest of the room at large. “No, no, we could use it as a selling point so that we can take on more ferry jobs.” She shoved around the green mush at the center of her tray. “And we could have a schedule to use the room and I can make a bunch of programs for group entertainment. I could easily design one to look like a five star on Gilatter VIII.”

This elicited a round of argument and fancy where everyone had an idea about how to program the hypothetical holoroom.

Regardless, the tech was a luxury affordable only to the one-percent of the richest people in the galaxy. The technology was too new and the equipment made from materials too rare. This was all a pipe dream. But then, Charlie and Ash were the best at entertaining the crew with impossible things.

“Captain?”

“Yeah, Mads?” Dean was leaned forward on his hands, having barely touched his food and almost asleep at the table.

“When Sam comes back, do you think he will be very different?” Madison had all four of her hands clutched together, the many wooden bracelets clicking. The Codru-ji was very fond of Sam and considered herself his personal guardian. She would, considering it had been Sam that convinced their parents to bring her on board when she had nowhere else to go and was on the run from her own government.

He gave it serious thought. From the message, Dean couldn’t tell a difference in Sam’s personality at all, only that he had aged into a young man physically. The total number of messages though, in the five years that Sam had been away at the Jedi Temple, were too small a number to really judge any change.

Sam was still a nerd as far as Dean knew. Too smart for his own good and too idealistic for the roguish lives of those on the Wayward Sun.

Dean _hoped_ Sam was unchanged. “Maybe a bit more disciplined and less like a newborn wyrwulf. Sammy’s too stubborn to change much though. Don’t you worry, Mads.”

At the other table, Ruby made a show of sweeping back her long black curls and fanning the heated purple blush from her red skin. “I bet he’ll be such a looker. Jedi robes really get me hot.”

“Shut it, Ruby.” Dean leveled her with his best glare, to which she only made kissy lips at him for. It was just how Zeltrons were. No one was seriously worried about her flirtations, as Ruby had proven time and again to be more controlled than her brethren.

Or at least as controlled as the threat of Dean slitting her throat afforded. No one was really sure.

He left his crew to their morning routines and headed off to his own quarters to get his four hours. He fell into the cushy comfort of his one indulgence of a good mattress with all his clothes still on and boots toed off over the edge of the bed. He fell asleep immediately, with the ease of a soldier taking rest where and when he could get it and entered into dreams that disturbed him and destroyed him.

They were always the same.

Blood in every color known to the galaxy. Screams in every voice of every sentient species that had been put under his ‘care’.

That steady clicking as the antique gears of an ancient analog clock ticked, ticked, ticked down the seconds until the darkness should have faded, but never did.

The light never came and Dean was always left with his sins.

* * *

There were few things more annoying than a padawan too excited to meditate properly. Castiel opened his eyes for the third time in the hour to see the teenager was fidgeting like a new initiate. Completely untamed and not really willing to even _try_ to control himself. “Sam.”

His padawan at least had the grace to look properly chastised. “I’m sorry, Master. I can feel him getting closer. I think they’ll enter the atmosphere soon.”

Giving up on the meditation, Castiel made to stand from the raised platform where he had sat cross-legged. They were outside, making use of one of the terraces that overlooked the quadrant and the hive of activity. Sound-dampening fields kept things silent, except for the birdsong of the little feathered creatures kept on the temple grounds. He looked up to the ever-cloudy sky as if to see if he could make out which of the many breaching ships that made to land would be the infamous Wayward Sun.

Getting clearance for the notorious ship and crew had been a prominent use of his time in the week they had spent preparing for departure. The ship and crew weren’t actually wanted by the law, but they were on the watch list and Coruscant Landing Security had made a huff over it.

Still he would admit, the reputation that preceded Sam’s family did wonders to convince the Jedi Council that this was the best way to get past the embargo at sector 21A4.

“Master, could we go now? I want to be there when they anchor.” Sam was standing as well, a good five inches taller than Castiel.

Castiel shrugged. “I’m sure they will need to resupply before we journey out again, but I’m willing to allow you this extravagance, if only to get it out of your system.”

The padawan dashed his fingers through his loose brown hair, sending the strands askew and wild. “You’re very patient with me. Please know that I appreciate that. You could have picked any number of more disciplined initiates.”

Still looking at the sky, Castiel nodded to confirm Sam’s assumption. “Discipline can be learned where talent cannot. You’re still young, Samuel, I begrudge you not for your excitement. I’m only disappointed at your shallow attempt to contain it.” Honestly, the teen’s aura was crackling with the energy of it. Castiel had to put up new layers of protection to keep a headache from developing.

“I’ll do better.”

“Yes.”

The trip by speeder to the ports was one that tested Castiel’s patience without challenging it. There wasn’t a thing or person in this verse that could really ruffle him.

They watched from the skywalk as the Wayward Sun came to a rumbling yet smooth landing, its radiant blue exterior contrasting dramatically with the pervasive dirty steel of the city-planet. The corvette was huge and looked to be armed well. It was hard to reconcile the monstrosity with a slick barricade runner.

As soon as the bay ramp began to lower, Sam was running towards the ship to meet the people that were disembarking. Castiel took a much more casual pace, showing up well after hugs and enthusiastic greetings had been exchanged thrice over.

Sam even hugged a droid. For all that it looked completely human, it was easy enough to sense what it lacked. His padawan had never mentioned that Frank the droid was an [HR](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Human_replica_droid)[D](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Human_replica_droid). Though that explained a few things about the stories Sam mentioned.

The first to recognize Castiel’s presence was a man with dark blonde hair that was cut military short, dressed in tight black pants over well-muscled legs and a matching vest that was laced closed over a fitted white shirt. The man turned to Castiel and reached out with one ungloved hand. “Captain Dean Winchester. You must be the Jedi Master looking after my lil’ brother.” The man stepped closer.

It wasn’t in his nature or culture to make any sort of skin contact. Even the Jedi Order made a habit of promoting a bow as a greeting in all situations.

But there was Dean’s hand extended to him and with it, was the absolute most ridiculously beautiful smile. Even with every thought completely under control, that smile made Castiel respond by taking hold of the proffered touch. The man was a work of art and he wanted to know more.

As art went, Dean’s hand was rough with blaster calluses and scars. Every mark was a story about Dean, and Castiel felt each against his own hand with a particular care to sense them beyond mere touch. He wanted to look down at them, but instead his eyes were caught by the shear amount of freckles across Dean’s skin, like beige stars dotting a milky peach sky. They even splattered across what breadth of collarbone that Dean’s shirt was open enough to reveal.

And the man’s aura was just as textured as the hand Castiel held. It made Dean brighter than anyone else Castiel had ever known. Not even his brothers Michael and Lucifer had auras that seemed to throw the rest of the world into such stark contrast. It was breathtaking in all its terrific glory.

Dean cleared his throat.

Castiel still had a hold of his hand.

He released his hold only to do something else that was against Castiel’s inclinations. One did not look into someone’s eyes out of respect for their personal space, just like one did not touch another for the same reason. But that’s exactly what Castiel did.

Dean’s eyes were green and gold, the colors made more prominent by the shrinking of the pupils in the overly bright docking port lights. There were soft wrinkles at the corners of those eyes, which suggested good humor in most human cultures, and a scar across the right eyebrow that wasn’t explained by any of Sam’s stories.

Even as he noted another thin line of a scar across Captain Winchester’s jawline, Dean’s face began to change. The smile became a bit more closed but was heightened by the blush that bloomed across his cheeks—and it was completely enchanting. It was a rosy pink beneath the freckles that bloomed like space dust in infrared light.

“Not to… uh, offend or anything—but how long do you plan on staring at me like that?” Then the man made the same gesture his younger brother was prone to, carding his fingers through his hair and resting the hand on the back of his neck.

Sam chose that moment to return to them. “Master, I’d like you to meet everyone.”

The next round of introductions required Castiel to look away to pay attention. Each greeting was punctuated by members of the crew taking off afterwards to get errands done. However, Castiel’s peripheral attention was wholly focused on the Captain of the Wayward Sun, whose aura held the Jedi Master rapt.

There were certainly ethical implications about being this transfixed with the brother of his padawan, but as long as he didn’t act on it the way he wanted to, no harm would come of it.

* * *

The Wayward Sun was restocked, the crew was back on board, and they had the clear for lift-off. Everyone and everything was pretty much set to go, so when Dean pulled his brother aside for some privacy, he did it without guilt and with full confidence that his crew didn’t need him to hover.

Sam sat at Dean’s desk-chair, a bundle of happiness in ridiculously plain white padawan clothes. “I missed this so much, you don’t even know Dean.”

“Hell, I could imagine it. Six years away from here and I was damn near crazy with homesickness. Your room is how you left it, by the way, though you’ve probably grown out of the old pop culture shit. And the bed too, jeez you’ve grown.” Dean took out a hidden flask from his bottom desk drawer and took a swig. He offered to share, but Sam refused it. Some things didn’t change after all. “So, talk to me.”

“I can’t talk about the mission, Dean.”

He waved the objection away. It was far and gone the last thing he wanted to talk about. What he was really interested in was Castiel. “So, I know one of your last messages you said you did pretty well and the Apprentice Tournament, so is this guy, I dunno, he one of the top teachers you could hope to get or…”

Sam spun in the chair, gangly legs kicking the desk on the way past. “Castiel is one of the most exemplary Masters of the Order. The only reason he isn’t on the Council is that he hasn’t been with the Order very long.” The kid stopped his spinning, back to Dean, with his head and neck arched over the short backrest of the seat to look behind him, upside down. “According to his own culture, he’s what’s known as a Seraph. That’s the second to highest ranking official in the Host.”

“So he’s good. Really good? And he picked you?”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

In a way, Dean wasn’t surprised. Sam had always been exceptional, even at an early age. The Order had wanted to take and train him for a long time before he had gone for it. Their parents had been dead set against it.

Dean took another swig of the firebrand depressant and shook away the immediate memories that cropped up at even the vague thought of their parents. “Just want to know where his mind is at for you, Sammy. You know I worry. I don’t think it’s a good thing that he picked you to train just because you’re talented.”

The kid spun around in the chair. His face a mask of neutrality. “Master Castiel thinks he can work with me. Not everyone has an agenda, Dean. Sometimes people just want to do the right thing, like Jedi aspire to do all the time.”

“You admit that’s not always the case though, right?” Everyone knew stories of the Sith and there was a lot of propaganda surrounding the Imperial and Clone Wars. Jedi with agendas were the kind of device that destroyed the galaxy time and again.

“You sound like Dad.”

“Not a bad thing.” He tipped his flask to the memory of their father, bitter as the liquid in his container.

“Not a good thing either.”

“Alright, alright, so what is it you really like about this guy?” Because of his paranoia, this was the first time he had actually met a fully-trained Jedi, and the way the man had looked at and through Dean had been as disconcerting as it had been thrilling. It had felt… what was a more manly word for naughty?

“There isn’t much to tell. He’s very serious and very practical. Even if the codes of conduct for Jedi have been loosened in the New Order, he just kind of reminds me of the stories of the old ways, when Jedi couldn’t have personal connections or feel any emotion too extreme, even happiness.”

Dean felt his skin heat up. There had definitely been something personal between Castiel and Dean. The times he was ever on the receiving end of that kind of piercing look, he usually got laid.

“You know it’s weird though. He shook your hand.”

“Jedi don’t shake hands?”

“We usually bow, but yeah, I know Master Castiel avoids physical contact on principle.” Sam shrugged. “Maybe he was just being nice because you’re my brother.” But the kid didn’t look convinced.

“I’m the exception to the rule, huh?” The idea was just tantalizing enough for him to break out in a small smile.

Sam bolted upright. “Dean, really? Really? My _mentor_?” Obviously, it was those trained Jedi senses of Sam’s that decimated Dean’s privacy.

It was that kind of crap that their mother and father had been trying to avoid. “Cut that out, Sam. Stay out of my head.”

“I don’t have to be in your head. You’re just not being very guarded about _having the hots for Master Castiel_.”

Dean shook out the tension from his shoulders and locked his flask away back in the desk with a bit more force than necessary. Sam was right, Dean’s interest in Castiel wasn’t appropriate. It didn’t matter that the Jedi was grace-incarnate, with the most intense pair of blue eyes Dean had ever seen on a human. It didn’t matter that there might have been some sort of weird and electric sort of connection between them when they met on the docks.

He sighed. A Jedi Master was way out of his league anyway, and probably even tougher to handle. There was a _reason_ their family had avoided Jedi for so long, and not just because of Sam. “Sorry, you’re right. I’ll forget it.”

His little brother had been considering the situation solemnly while Dean had taken his moment to muse. The response he came up with was the last Dean expected. “Are you kidding? You should at least try. I just thought you didn’t like Jedi.”

“What?” He had to stop and take a moment. Did he just get permission? “I—uhh—I’m wary of them. Rightfully so.” And that was something to keep in mind rather than let his guard down to that handsome brooding face accented in dark stubble.

“Well, just get to know him. You’ll see, there’s nothing to be wary of.” Delighted with the turn in the conversation, Sam spun around in the chair once more, before putting on his stoic Jedi face and making his way out of the office to do whatever it was that Jedi do.

* * *

With three weeks (15 days) before they hit their destination sector, Dean had plenty of time to try and get to know the Jedi Master.

And Castiel was giving him plenty of opportunity to do so. On a ship that could hold up to three-hundred people and a starfighter, Castiel had ample opportunity and Jedi senses to avoid Dean if he really wanted to.

But Dean had every reason to think that the opposite was happening.

After three days of tense, ‘accidental’ meetings, and dancing around each other indecisively in between long stares and exploratory conversation, it was getting to the point that Dean was slowly dissolving into a mess of nerves. The attraction was wrecking him to the point he had even tried to get Sam to teach him meditation. That had failed spectacularly, so Dean had beat the stuffing out of a punching bag instead, which had only served to make him sweaty and tired, but no less desperate.

The worst part was that his crew had taken notice. And every single one of them had joined in for a big game of, ‘Get the Captain Laid.’ The game mostly consisted of vacating the room to leave Dean and Castiel alone together.

It was not a smart idea to be out of control around a Jedi, so that’s why Dean had resorted to his last defense. Mechanical work and very loud music.

It was during this respite that the Jedi found Dean in the hangar, working on the Impala--his sturdy, black, C-H3V Y-class starfighter. He was rooting around near the manifolds at the belly of the craft, patching a wiring misdirect. A recording of his favorite compilation from DC\AC was blaring through the hangar speaker system and not another sound could be heard besides the riffs of electric strings and rhythmic beat of drums that accompanied the gritty, high pitched vocals of the lead singer. So, when Castiel was finally able to get Dean’s attention, it was pretty much like the Jedi appeared from nowhere to suddenly brush up against Dean’s shoulder while he had his eyes focused on the wires in his hands.

The one small contact was electric, and for a second Dean thought that he had managed to shock himself before he turned his head to see Castiel right next to him.

Castiel merely tilted his head to the side and gave that intense look of consideration when Dean yelped loud enough to be heard over the music, and then backed into a panel door that hung open, banging his head righteously. Dean was still stumbling around his work area, kicking tools with steel toed boots as he searched for the control com. It was under his discarded vest. “Decibel level fifty.”

The music shushed to the level of muted conversation and Dean straightened to turn back towards Castiel.

The Jedi did not look apologetic.

“You should give a guy some warning before sneaking up on ‘im.” Dean rubbed at the bump developing on his scalp. If Castiel hadn’t been so attractive he might have been a little angrier about it.

Castiel navigated the maelstrom of the work area with grace, avoiding all hazards without looking where he was going. That blue stare was locked right on to Dean. “It’s not sneaking if the target is warned, and besides, I was not sneaking. Your music was too loud for me to shout over.”

“Yeah well--”

“This is the famous Impala then?” The Jedi had stopped just short of Dean. He caressed the polished black metal of the starfighter.

Dean was torn between getting lost in the penetrating attention of the Jedi Master and the hand that Castiel kept against the Impala. Castiel was not wearing his gloves, which after day one the Jedi had on constantly. Dean remembered in scary detail what that bared hand in his own had felt like. He sucked on his bottom lip to bite at it before he decided to keep his eyes focused somewhere neutral. “Yeah, that’s my baby.” Neutral turned out to be Castiel’s chest, which was only adorned in plain tunic made of some sort of soft material that conformed well to the muscles it hid.

Damnit, that wasn’t neutral after all.

“I don’t believe ‘Impala’ is a Corellisi word.” Castiel finally took his gaze away to pay more attention to the shiny starcraft. “Sam talks of your devotion to this craft as if it were some sort of symbiotic lifeform.”

Sam was talking way too much then. Jedi were supposed to be restraint incarnate, right?

“It does have some sort of life to it.” Now the Jedi Master had both hands on the craft, feeling for something that he must have been sensing.

Shit, shit, _shit._ Dean needed a distraction. He crossed the distance to the Jedi and reached for the searching hands to pull them from the Impala. Suddenly, he had both of those bare, smooth hands in his own, and he pulled Castiel around to face him. Then there was barely space for air between them.

Castiel had inhaled so sharply, at first Dean had thought he was in pain, but those ultramarine eyes told a different story in their intensity. “Captain?”

His title had never been said with that much husk and rumble. Dean felt the shock of it up his spine. “Dean. Just Dean.” He dropped the Jedi’s hands then, feeling as if he had held on to them any longer he was going get a fever.

“ _Dean_.”

Oh, that was _so_ much worse. Castiel’s voice was at a register low enough to decimate Dean’s concentration. What was he saying? What was he doing? Why was the Jedi even here distracting him so badly? “Um, what are—why—”

“I came to find you because it was recently brought to my attention that we are very far from the Order, and my padawan is very understanding that you are your own person, perfectly capable of making up his own mind.” He tilted his head just so, enough to imply a question. “I sense nothing turbulent or dark in this, Dean. Maybe a few secrets, but that is everyone’s privilege.”

Oh! Oh… “This.” He wagged a finger between the two of them. “So you’re suggesting we do something about _this_.”

“Consent pending.” Castiel’s eyelids fluttered, and dark lashes settled to half-cover that damned optical distraction and give Dean some room to think.

Not that he needed to. Yes, _this_ was going to happen. Dean grinned, “Consent given.”

* * *

That inch of space between them disappeared as soon as Dean had allowed it to happen. Castiel had reached for Dean. Dean had reached back.

Now Castiel found himself exactly where he wanted to be. He could have ignored this desire—could even have torn from his mind the memory of their first meeting and the spark of interest it ignited. Castiel could easily have just ended it all as if Dean had never happened into his life.

Coming to the hangar, finding Dean’s sanctuary, was Castiel’s decision to take a risk. For once in his life he was going to do something... dangerous. This thing between himself and Dean could very well be what pushed him into the _dark_.

But Dean’s soul was just too bright to lose sight of it.

Dean slid his hands up Castiel’s arms and over his shoulders. A thumb stroked the line of his jaw as Castiel held him close with one hand curled around Dean’s bicep. His other hand he placed against Dean’s hip, index finger through one of the belt loops. Just this slight contact, through tight-woven cloth and stretched leather, would have been enough for Castiel.

But then Dean was touching his neck and the press of coarse fingertips to his body’s pulsing artery was too much. It felt like his skin was burning. It made him want more. What would more be like? Castiel was inclined to find out, and he leaned in to explore.

He pressed their lips together softly at first, and then more firmly as he gained confidence. Dean kissed back lightly, pulling back before the kiss deepened much, and chuckled when Castiel made a noise of frustration. Castiel was already suspending his discipline for this connection. He needed Dean to let go too. His grumble of discontent was the only warning he gave Dean before he pushed the other man back against the side of the Impala.

Castiel swallowed Dean’s gasp of surprise and nipped that delicious bottom lip that had been brought to his attention just a minute ago. He wanted in. He wanted to taste and delve and wanted to be taken in-return. He wanted the scrape of teeth and the invasion of tongue.

Then Dean was with him. Hot and messy with the filthy slide of his tongue against Castiel’s. Dean’s hands went from his neck to cup his jaw and pulled him into an angle that satisfied them both.

Greedily, Castiel’s hands were untucking and unbuttoning Dean’s shirt and finding skin. He needed it, that texture held in reverence and privacy, like everything forbidden to the Host. Castiel dragged his thumbs up the sharp cut of Dean’s hip bones. Each touch was a spark, for the pleasure of having something he had wanted infinitely more than he ever realized.

He pulled their hips together until all points of contact possible were made, which elicited a low groan of pleasure from Dean. They were both hard enough to rub against each other through layers of offending clothes. They ground together for the tease and the need. Breath was overrated and overridden with desire to be locked this way, kissing, exploring, creating friction. At some point Dean threaded one hand into Castiel’s hair to pet and pull just enough to disconnect Castiel from his journey of Dean’s mouth. Dean’s lips brushed across his jaw before seeking that pulse at his neck, sucking and tasting gently, then roughly when Castiel let a moan escape at just how _good_ it felt.

His breath was heavy with the opportunity to suck down enough air, but it hitched and held when Dean slipped fingers along the small of his back and slid beneath the waistband of his pants. His hips jerked into Dean, the notion of where those roguish fingers were aimed unraveling every coherent thought Castiel had hung on to.

Against his ear, Dean whispered. “Not here.”

At first, Castiel didn’t recognize the words. Galactic Basic was not his first language and translating was the furthest possible skill available to him right that moment when Dean was lustily massaging him where the man’s hands had stopped.

He still didn’t understand until Dean withdrew, hands sliding away until their hands together were the only remaining contact. Dean was tugging gently, with a suggestive grin that said much more than words ever would. They were going to go somewhere. Somewhere that they wouldn’t have to stop until they had found bliss.

Castiel swallowed harshly and followed where Dean led.

* * *

Dean was riding an adrenaline buzz. He had a lethally handsome Jedi Master by his side in the elevator, and Dean was holding his hand. It was disgustingly cute, he would admit, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go this time. They were both still breathing a little raggedly, and the tension in the small enclosed space was thick enough to strangle them. This calm they maintained was an illusion.

It was an illusion they held in stasis right up until the doors to Dean’s quarters slid closed behind them and locked on Dean’s orders. Which one of them made that first move, Dean wasn’t sure, but in seconds they were back to where they had left off in the hangar. Hard against the other, hands feeling everywhere, this time with the loss of clothes to the appreciative groans and growls that accompanied each new revelation of skin.

Castiel’s exposed collarbone drew Dean in like a beacon and he followed the contour downward with his lips, and then all the way down. Each curve of muscle beneath lightly tanned skin and each quiver of response gave him a direction to go and license to please. Castiel’s body was a well-toned gift to Dean’s attentions and he couldn’t do justice to the bounty—standing as they were in the middle of his living room.

There was a couch around here somewhere.

Castiel knew or responded to Dean’s inclination and guided them both to a horizontal surface without ever breaking more contact than was necessary. Dean fell onto the couch while holding on to Castiel, bringing the Jedi on top of him.

This, this pressure was perfect. Every angle and curve met and complimented. Their cocks seeking each other to grind mercilessly. He was going to come just off this and their pants hadn’t even been dismissed yet. “Fuck me, Cas.” The words came out strangled in a growl.

Facilitating the demand, Castiel had the laces of Dean’s pants undone and pulled down faster than even Dean could do himself. That was some impressive Jedi shit right there.

Exposed to the heated air and free, Dean’s cock swelled to a rise, inviting attention. Castiel’s hand found the shaft unerringly and relieved the fierce need in Dean by squeezing the tender flesh in a stroke.

There was no air to breathe and it was making him dizzy. Castiel was kissing him and stroking him, sucking down Dean’s moans and pressing his hips back down when he thrusted up into Castiel’s hand. That beautiful, strong hand, smooth and graceful.

“ _Dean_.” Again, his name laden with grit and sex. Castiel could say his name forever.

“Say it. Say it again.”

Castiel smiled against the scruff of Dean’s cheek. He stroked Dean harder, longer, breathed into Dean’s ear that one gruff word. “ _Dean._ ”

* * *

Dean’s cum erupted in long ropes that stuck to both of them. Castiel’s hand was covered with it as he worked Dean through the orgasm and watched. Everything, from the arch of Dean’s chest to that delicate blush of climax beneath the incredibly attractive splatter of freckles, was setting off every nerve in Castiel’s body.

Withdrawing his bracing arm and leveraging himself up, he pushed down his own trousers to give himself some room. Dean was watching him now, the pleasure of the orgasm giving way to renewed excitement. The rogue had that particularly devilish smirk on his face that had Castiel responding in kind.

He took his cum-drenched hand and sought out the sensitive ring of flesh that needed his attention. It was puckered with anticipation, and the sheath of muscle remained blessedly tight around the one finger Castiel slowly pressed in. Dean had his head thrown back against the armrest of the couch, biting his lower lip as if to hold back the dirty moans that escaped him anyway. This was a sight that Castiel drank in, this naked man pushing down loose on his finger and then clenching at the pull. Dean took a second intrusion on another thrust, Castiel’s index slipping in and welcomed despite the abrasiveness of the drying cum.

He leaned forward over Dean, rested his head against the man’s chest even as his free arm wrapped around Dean’s waist and brought the thrusting to a stop. His fingers were still tucked inside, and he let them stay there, unmoving to revel in the heat of it before he spoke. His voice was a little broken. “Do you want me here?” He crooked his fingers then to make his point.

Dean spasmed. It was delicious. Castiel had to drink in the pleasure through every sense he had; tasting Dean’s pecs with his tongue, breathing in the aroma of sex, his eyes open, Dean’s growl of arousal in his ears, and that other sense of his that drowned in the brilliant aura that was solely Dean. He was still so dizzy in the sudden overwhelming intoxication that he almost missed the string of yesses that strained from Dean.

Before Dean could get another hold in his hair to hold him in place, Castiel withdrew. Dean followed as if they were attached by a length of rope with only a foot of distance allowed between them. Like that, Castiel led them both to the bedroom, the room that felt the most intimate and private to his extra sense. There was no stumbling over clothes, or clingy reaching, or any communication necessary. When they entered the room, Dean caught him for a quick, chaste kiss before retreating to the connecting refresher. No words. Just intent.

In the interim, Castiel reined in his control, but instead of cooling down his lust, he used his concentration to maintain the fever. Throbbing and heavy between his legs, his cock pulsed at the ready even as he rummaged through the bedside drawers for lubricating gel. He found it behind two guns and a bottle of sleep aids.

The implications were not something he was willing to think about, so he sat at the edge of the bed, and crossed his legs. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the itchiness of the dried cum across his bare stomach, easily falling into a strange state of eroticism and calm meditation.

It was exactly ten minutes later when a tepid cloth was brushed over his abs, abrading the mess there and cleansing his skin. He kept his eyes closed, appreciating the detail from his other senses that registered Dean’s presence with comprehensive accuracy. A little more composed, but in every way fierce.

Smelling a little of soap and sweat, Dean crawled into Castiel’s lap and straddled him. “Open those eyes, Jedi. I want you to watch.”

Castiel brought his knees up against Dean’s back, tilting his lover forward and into his chest. “It would be my pleasure.” He had lost track of the bottle, but when he needed something in his hand, whatever it was tended to find its own way with a little concentration. The errant bottle flew to his palm, cap popped with barely a flick of his thumb.

Dean was making it impossible to concentrate on the coordination he needed to slick his other hand, while still holding on to the writhing mass of muscle and needy hands in his lap. He could do little but hold on, delighted to thrust his cock between sweat-slick thighs. Castiel’s teeth caught Dean’s collarbone, and then bit hard enough to make the rogue jump and still—just enough time for him to get the lubricant dispensed.

He kissed the red mark he had left and proceeded to make up for it even more by slicking up Dean’s cleft. His fingers found their target, made quicker and easier by Dean backing into his hand. Dean gave him a show, moving up and down on his fingers, first two then three. Castiel worked Dean open, pressing into the prostate when he wanted to hear Dean curse in a throaty groan. That mouth was dirty and amazing. Castiel wanted those pretty, kiss-swollen lips against his, so he reached up across Dean’s back and pushed down when his hand found Dean’s neck.

Dean knew. The rogue kissed him hard, teeth catching Castiel’s lips when he brushed against that sweet spot again. Dean was cursing against his lips, alternating between kissing and grinding down. They were all over the board with need and want, the next stage waiting for them, but neither really willing to give up the current position.

The curses devolved into, “Fuck me. Fuck me, Cas, I need it. Fuck me.” Even as Dean continued to clench down on Castiel’s fingers.

“ _Make me, Dean_.” The words were torn from him, forced passed his lips in a snarl that set Dean off.

Reflexes like lightning, Dean found the lubricant and covered Castiel’s cock with rapturous strokes before taking hold of his base. Dean rose high and guided the tip until it was pressed to Dean’s waiting hole. Just the small touch had Castiel holding Dean as if life depended on it. Dean lowered onto him, taking him in slowly, excruciatingly tender. Their breathing was deliberately slowed, trying to keep things gradual.

It was almost too much. Dean was seated completely and Castiel’s shaft was thrumming from the intensity of pressure. It was this. This insanity that was going to drive him over the line. He held on.

Dean moved.

Castiel went with the motion, resigned to pleasure, and alighted his hands to Dean’s hips to gently ride there as the rogue rode _him_.

Every muscle was tensed to the point of pain, his nerves shivering, the only bit of focus he was able to maintain was to gaze back into Dean’s lust-darkened stare. When he registered that Dean’s cock was smacking against his stomach from the rhythm, Castiel’s hand found and held it instinctively.

Dean was as wild and powerful as solar winds. The pace got harder, faster, thrusting into Castiel’s hand, and grinding down onto his cock. The sheath of muscle that gripped Castiel tight took him to the edge.

Beyond groans, curses, breathy kisses, the smell of sweat, sex, and lube-- there was oblivion.

“ _Now._ ”

It was a Dean’s grunted command that sent Castiel over.

And Dean came with him.

* * *

They were laid out over Dean’s bed, stretched out to cover as many inches of the cool, king size bedsheets as they could. Dean had turned onto his stomach to expose his ass to the air, letting the tingling after-sensations sing through him. He was sore in every good way, from where Castiel had gripped him to bruising, to how hard he ground on to Castiel’s thick cock. His thighs were going to give him hell on the morrow and it was going to be great.

Sex had never been that good before. Men, women, near-human, a few compatible aliens. They had all been a learning experience, and pleasant. But this? Castiel was another level entirely. Just seeing the Jedi on his bed earlier, meditating with a dick so hard it leaked precum had been enough to excite Dean again even after being spent. He had never recovered so fast.

Would it be like this for the next twelve days? Dean would consent to it in heartbeat. He would consent to any and every filthy wonderful thing Castiel was willing to do.

He sighed with bemusement. What did he have against Jedi again?

Castiel tapped his shoulder with a rap of one knuckle. “Dean.”

“Hm?”

“You can call me Cas.”

Dean rose to his elbows. “Huh?”

Castiel shifted just enough to look at him. “You called me Cas. I liked it. I’d like it if you called me Cas hereafter.”

“Oh, I uh…” He hadn’t even realized he had shortened the Jedi’s name. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Cas nodded and reached for him, pulling Dean into his chest and tucking Dean’s head under his chin. This felt right. Dean adjusted enough to make it perfect. His Jedi pulled up the cover over them both. Middle of the day cycle and Dean was exhausted enough to fall right to sleep.

When the darkness seeped in it was a gradual thing that twisted his dreams and sent him careening into memories he kept locked away when he was awake.

His hands were covered in red and blue colored blood that mixed into a black, coagulated sludge. It made holding the jagged, saw-like torture device a dangerous job. The slit-pupil eye he held in the other hand looked up at him as if aware, even though the optic nerve had been severed.

The floor was a tangled mass of gore and broken bodies. The walls were rusted metal sheets painted in bile and unknown fluids. The air hummed with a drone of a fan, ventilating the room without relieving the humidity or intense smell of rot and excrement.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The analog clock worked, but never changed. The darkness swept in from the shadows and took a hold of Dean. It crawled up his legs, caressed him, cloaked him, then swallowed him. The darkness kept him in the nightmare. Perpetual. Deadly.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Daylight never came.

Tick. Tick. Tick. He stalked the cells, punished the silent, burned the tear ducts of the pleading. Each being that was belted to his archaic metal rack screamed or screeched. He made them beg. He made them regress to animals unaware of any language that would be enough to end the pain.

Tick. Tick. Tick. He worked steadily. Some far-off part of him despaired and loathed what he was doing, but the darkness controlled him. He couldn’t stop. In the nightmare, the darkness showed him how to like the pain he inflicted. At one point, he had fallen for that trap, but this time he wouldn’t give in to the nightmare. The memories. The three years of his life so far away from who he was and who he was supposed to be.

The clock chimed.

Blue-white light struck the darkness like fire and lightning.

A piercing shrill broke the glass of the clock and sent Dean to his knees.

The world around him rocked. Erupted. Broke apart into pieces.

When the cataclysm faded there was endless, calm shallow water all around him, reflecting an ultramarine sky. He was clean. He was in control. Dean stared at his hands and the scars there but breathed easy. Those years were gone. That damn clock was gone.

Castiel watched Dean sleep. He had sat up cross-legged on the bed, keeping his hip in contact with Dean, allowing the man to curl around the new breadth of area Castiel had vacated. Dean was at peace now, the nightmares wiped away.

It certainly explained the sleep-aids. He had only caught a hint of what comprised the darkness that had corrupted Dean’s aura, but it was enough. There was more to Dean than Castiel had initially garnered. Nothing about what he had sensed in the sleeping man had ever suggested that such evil lurked within. By all rights, Dean should not have been able to lock away that vile part so thoroughly that everything left seemed utterly pure.

He carded his hand through Dean’s hair. Something in this man was broken horribly. It was more than the troubled family life Sam had alluded to. It was more than a life on the wrong side of the law. That darkness was ingrained in Dean. It was never going to go away no matter how brightly he shined.

But Castiel knew now that he was guided by the Force to be there for Dean and help tame the twisted, writhing corruption when it reared. From that moment when he had accepted Dean’s extended hand, had touched Dean for the first time, Castiel had been _lost._

In the dim light of the bedroom and with a view of the stars from the wide viewport, Castiel traced shapes of constellations with the freckles on Dean’s left shoulder and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> The hottest parts were written by my dearest friend @Robinade, so thank her for that. We collaborated on this back in 2017 and I never posted it for reasons unknown. I figure with the popularity of the Mandalorian and Destiel going canon back in Nov 2020, maybe I should put this up for others to read. Thank you for stopping by!


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